


Breakfast

by rosegoldroman



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, More Fluff, literally all i write is fluff i stg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:26:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldroman/pseuds/rosegoldroman
Summary: Roman is good at a great many things — but cooking is not one of them.





	Breakfast

This wasn’t going according to plan.

Roman stood, soaking wet, in the center of the kitchen as it dissolved into absolute chaos, into smoke and burning cheese and melting chocolate and spraying sprinklers, a dawning horror on his pale face and a growing knot of panic in his stomach. His perfect plan was falling apart at the seams, and he was at a loss for how to fix it. What could he do?

He’d been planning this day for week, meticulously setting up every little detail in anticipation. A surprise breakfast in bed? A day full of fun, full of romance? The perfect surprises for his perfect love, right? 

It was  _supposed_  to be perfect for his love.

Why wasn’t it perfect?

  
He’d woken at the crack of dawn, when the very first rays of rose-gold sunlight began spilling into the mindscape; had tiptoed to the kitchen in complete silence, in absolutely agonizing slowness, careful to stop every few moments to make sure his whisper-soft footsteps hadn’t somehow woken the others. After that, the cooking was supposed to be the  _easy_  part — sure, he’d never actually cooked before, but he’d watched Patton cook _loads_  of times. How hard could it be?

He moved quickly, gathering his ingredients into a haphazard pile on the counter and setting to work. He cracked eggs and mixed batter with the kind of excited passion saved only for his beautiful, amazing boyfriend, all the while imagining Virgil’s reaction when he burst into the darker trait’s room, tray in hand and a ‘happy birthday’ hot on his tongue. It was going to be perfect — romantic and spontaneous and wonderful; Virgil was sure to love it, probably as much as Roman loved him.

No, that was impossible. Nothing could surpass his love.

He was caught up in his fantasies, in the swell of excitement in his chest and the flutter of his heart as he imagined his love’s reaction — so much so that he didn’t notice as the cheesy eggs on the stove began to bubble and smoke. He whirled around the kitchen in a dance of sorts as he stirred the pancake batter, unaware as dark smoke began to float upwards from the pan.

He sucked in a breath as he twirled — and stopped, mid-spin, his nose crinkling in disgust as the acrid smoke burned his throat. He coughed into the back of his hand, turning around.

His eyes widened, his blood running cold. “Oh my —” He rushed forward, quickly shutting off the oven, but it was already too late. His omlette, his _perfect_  omlette, was ruined, a smoldering heap of blackened cheese and smoking eggs.

He let out a sigh, his stomach sinking as he watched the eggs bubble and smoke. This wasn’t good. He’d have to start all over!

He grimaced, coughing as he scraped the ruined omlette into the sink and washed the burned residue out of the pan. Carefully, he set it back onto the stove and poured chocolaty pancake batter into it. They began to sizzle and brown, driving out the scent of smoke with the delicious smell of chocolate-chip goodness, and Roman’s smile found its way back onto his face. He could still save this! It would be  _fine._

He turned and gathered a few more eggs, carefully cracking them into a big bowl, humming cheerfully as the pancakes sizzled and browned. His plan was falling back into place. After all, who was he to let one burned omlette stop him?

He set down the bowl of eggs and reached to push open the window, allowing a cool breeze to take the rest of the smoke from the room. He took a deep, calming breath of fresh air as he poured a packet of cheese into the bowl of eggs, smiling the whole time.

It was then that the pancakes began to burn.

Roman whirled around as the scent of smoke began filling the room once more, a curse hot on his tongue. He lunged for the oven, reaching desperately for the knob to turn off the heat — but he was too late. The sprinklers burst into life, drenching Roman in freezing cold water, and the smoke detector began wailing.

“No! No, no no!” Roman cried loudly. “Shit!”

 

 

Virgil groaned.

He turned over in his sleep, his face scrunching up reflexively as the distant sound of an alarm filled his room. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, as if that would block out the noise, and let out another groan. He didn’t want to wake up yet! 

It was too late. His eyes were open, his mind already filling with thoughts; there was no chance of getting back to sleep now. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing his eyes as he yawned widely. Groggily, he wondered — where was that sound coming from?

He took in a breath, and froze, his eyes widening. Was that… smoke? Why did he smell smoke? Slowly, his tired mind put together the pieces.

“Holy _shit_  —” He leaped from his bed with the agility of a frightened cat, racing from his room as panic filled his chest and stopped his breath. Was there a fire?  _The mindscape was gonna burn down oh my **god**  —_

He frantically slid through the commons, coming to a shaky stop in front of the kitchen door. It was closed, smoke filtering into the rest of the house from beneath it, and through the door Virgil could hear someone swearing, their voice cracking with sheer panic.  _Oh god,_ Virgil thought, recognizing the dramatic swell of the voice.  _He’s gonna die._

He shoved open the kitchen door with a grunt, and a cry of, “don’t worry, I’ll save you!” Roman looked up and paled even further, his mouth opening in a little ‘o’ of shock. The kitchen around him was chaos, an absolute mess with a sheepish, soggy prince right in the very center of it all.

“Virgil, wait, I —” Roman stepped forward frantically, waving his arms as though to usher Virgil out of the room — his foot his a wet spot on the floor, and he went flying, a yelp escaping his lips as his legs flew out from under him.

Virgil watched as the scene played out before him, unsure whether to be worried or amused. The prince slipped and fell, his arms flailing wildly — one caught the bowl of watery egg yolks on the counter and sent it, too, flying through the air, tumbling and sending yolks splattering through the kitchen — and splatter they did, right on top of the stove, where they began to sizzle as well, adding to the smoke coming from the burning pancakes — until the bowl hit the handle of the pan and sent it flying as well, it and the blackened pancakes and bits of egg.

Roman pulled himself back to his feet — only to have a pancake fall on top of his head like a smoldering hat. He screamed, loud enough to drown out the incessant beeping of the smoke detector, pulling the pancake from his head and flinging it far away. He tried to take another step, but his wet socks only served to trip him up even more, and he slid towards Virgil with another loud scream.  
Virgil yelped, dashing forward to catch the falling prince.

Roman looked up at him, his face red and his eyes wide. Virgil helped him get back to his feet and then strode forward, flicking off the oven with a sigh.

“Well,” Virgil began, crossing his arms. “That’s the single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen someone do.”

Roman straightened up, and Virgil could see by the twinkle in his eyes that the prince half-expected him to finish with some sort of compliment, something commending how he’d done his best, how he’d tried his hardest to make Virgil breakfast even though the odds were stacked against him. Hiding a laugh, Virgil shook his head.

“Like, I’ve never seen anyone mess up this badly before. I think you might have just broken a record, Princey.”

Roman scoffed, leaning forward to playfully whack Virgil in the arm. “Oh, shush, you. I was  _trying_  to do a nice thing for your birthday!”

Virgil smirked. “I know. Thanks for the… _attempt_ , Roman.”

Roman smiled, leaning forward and catching his boyfriend by the lips. “Happy birthday,” he whispered as they pulled apart, his face flushed. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Princey,” Virgil said, reaching up to softly touch his own lips, his face bright red. He opened his mouth to say more, but then —

“Are you  _kidding_  me?” A voice came from the doorway, exhausted and flat and filled with annoyance. Logan stood with his arms crossed — from the look of him, he’d gotten out of bed in a rush once he heard the smoke alarm; his hair was mussed, sticking up at odd angles, and his glasses hung lopsidedly on his face. “How did you even — I don’t — you know what? Don’t tell me. I’m going back to bed.”

He turned and marched back down the hallway, muttering something that sounded like, “I should have known.” Roman and Virgil shared a look as he left, and dissolved into laughter, their faces bright with wide grins.

‘Oh, I suppose we’d better get this cleaned up,” Roman said with a heavy sigh once they’d finished laughing, glancing around the destroyed kitchen. Virgil nodded, reaching up to grab the cleaning supplies from the cabinet.

“Roman?” Virgil asked, a few moments later as he scrubbed eggs off the stove.

“Yeah?”

“From now on, leave the cooking to Patton.”


End file.
